Good Night
by intastella burst
Summary: Susan cannot sleep until she sees that her siblings are safe in their beds. One-shot.


**Author's Note: I'm aware that this type of fic (the "Pevensies watch each-other sleep" fic) has been done many times before, but I'm relatively new to this fandom, and so that's my excuse, I suppose, however weak it may be. **

* * *

A chill wind, a North wind, whisks its way through Cair Paravel one night in the early autumn. Tapestries and wall hangings flutter in whisper-soft movements against the unyielding stone walls, and Queen Lucy the Valiant stirs in her sleep (but does not waken), a pale sleepy face cringing at the cold. The sea does not lap, but beats ferociously at the sandy shore at the foot of the Cair, and King Edmund the Just sprawls, fully clothed and fully exhausted, atop his quilted blankets, right hand twitching involuntarily as though it misses the grip of a sword (or perhaps a quill).

And Queen Susan the Gentle purposefully walks the corridors of the castle alone, haunting them like a solid sort of apparition, dressed in a calf-length chemise of the purest white, dark plaited hair and bright eyes standing out sharply in the gloom. A thin blanket is wrapped around her shoulders as a shield against the cool air. She is not particularly worried about the propriety (or lack thereof) of her attire, because she knows that no one here minds, and no one here means her harm.

Perhaps she is rather out of order, by any usual standards. But the inhabitants of the Cair are so used to their monarchs' strange ways that not a one bats an eyelash at the sight of their Queen wandering the hushed halls in the middle of the night. The sentries posted every few dozen yards nod at her respectfully, too wise to question her appearance, and she continues her rounds with a determined flush in her cheeks.

She finally approaches her destination, the corridor outside Lucy and Edmund's bedchambers, her bare feet tip-tapping along the icy-cold floors. She stands still in the hallway for a just a fraction of a moment, engulfed in a sudden gust of air; the cool wind reaches even here, in the most secluded passages of the castle, and it whips her silky hair into her eyes and her (silk, really) blanket every which-way. It is brisk, but almost soothing--it carries with it the rich promise of a heavy rain.

Lucy first. Susan hesitantly places her palm on the smooth wood of her sister's door and listens for a moment; she hears naught but the even breathing of a sleeper, and therefore pushes the entry open just wide enough for her to slip through. Ghost-like, she tiptoes to the great canopied bed. The chamber is much warmer than the hallway, as the window is barricaded shut (Susan saw to that earlier, before Lucy retired for the evening), but still a slight chill pervades the air. It seems to have meandered in just as Susan did--through a thin crack in the door.

Lucy sleeps in the peaceful way of those unburdened by their consciences, and for a moment, Susan envies her. Her curly fair tresses are spread helter-skelter about her slender face on the pillow like messy rays of sunlight, and Susan smiles fondly at the sight. It appears that Lu has forgotten yet again to braid her thick hair before bed--she will have horrendous knots and tangles in the morning.

_But that's just Lucy for you_, Susan knows. Knots and tangles, big or small in nature, never bother her.

Susan's smile fades, and she reaches out tentatively, her fingers gently brushing the pendant, the miniature talisman (it is a Lion's head, of course) that Lucy has worn about her neck ever since an unusually teary-eyed Peter presented it to her last year on her birthday. It glimmers against the hollow of her throat in the dusky night, all rich gold and deep musky red, and Susan's heart throbs at the beauty (whether of her sister or the necklace or the two together she can hardly say). Lucy's family has always protected her from harm to the best of their ability and this necklace seems to symbolize that. They have always protected her, sometimes in spite of Lucy herself, but how will they shield her from the sort of characters that might've snatched Susan's very life away from her in Tashbaan without a second thought? Susan knows (or does she merely hope?) that Lucy, lovely, innocent, cheerful Lucy, can scarcely conceive of the fact that such people _exist_, never mind that they might target her.

Lucy knows much more than her elder sister when it comes to technically fighting on the battlefield, but so much less when it comes to the ugly wars that can rage within people's very souls.

Lucy shivers a little (the door was left open, and there is a draft), and Susan pulls the coverlet up so that nothing but her sister's small face is exposed. She can figure out how to deal with bad men and terrifying truths later. For now it is enough that she keep Lucy warm.

A kiss on the forehead, and Susan is ready to proceed to her little brother's room. ('Little' is hardly the appropriate adjective to use when describing tall, lanky Edmund, but it is how she always has and always will refer to him in her mind.) Susan knows from experience that he is a much lighter sleeper than Lucy, and so she is doubly cautious as she creeps into his dim and dusky chambers. Her body is abruptly shocked by the extreme temperature change; Edmund has left his window open, and doubtless the cold air has been pouring in for hours. It is all she can do to refrain from 'tsk'-ing aloud as she hurries to bolt the windowpanes and pull and the curtains firmly shut.

This causes no small amount of noise, and Susan nervously makes her way to his bedside, almost certain that she has wakened her notoriously vigilant brother: she's seen him quite literally sleep with one eye open.

But no! By all appearances, he dozes on, all legs and arms akimbo, breathing raspily through his mouth. It's not often that she sees him in such an undignified state.

_But that's just Edmund for you_, she knows. Not nearly as tough as he likes to appear.

Susan extends her long fingertips and strokes his cheekbone as gingerly as she is able; Edmund isn't one for physical displays of affection, and it's not often she gets to be this close to him.

She leans in to give him a goodnight kiss on the forehead, but retreats hastily as he snort-sighs, long and loud and obnoxiously sleepy. She's fairly confident that he remains unconscious, but decides to leave anyway--with Edmund you never know.

It is as she enters Peter's bedchamber (not bothering to be quiet; her elder brother is not due home from fighting the Giants until the morrow) that her own exhaustion catches up with her. His room is nowhere near as chilly as the other bedchambers, but only because it's been closed off from the rest of the Cair for several months now in the High King's absence. The relative warmth lazily invades her system and forces her to let out a long, rather uncouth yawn.

It seems impossible that he's really been gone so long. They all miss him terribly, and Susan feels his loss keenly: she is a great comforter, but in her heart of hearts she wants nothing more than to be comforted in return. And Peter, for whatever reason, is the only one really able to do that.

_But that's just Peter for you_, Susan knows. Truly one of a kind.

Her thoughts are jumbled and barely coherent by now; the warmth of the room acts like a sedative, and she just barely makes it to the regal high-backed chair by the door before she is dragged under blissful waves of lethargy. Just before she loses consciousness, a voice in the back of her head screams the terrible manners of what she is doing in taking someone else's room, and usually, indeed, her body would revolt at the very idea of causing anyone inconvenience, and she would drag herself the distance to her own room. But Peter is away and she is so very tired . . . and, oh, surely it's all right for just one night because the cushions are so soft . . .

Thunder grumbles in the heavens, as if in agreement, and she takes it as permission.

* * *

A moist cool wind, the wind that follows immediately after a heavy rain, blows through Cair Paravel one morning in the early autumn, and Queen Lucy smiles as she brushes the sleep from her eyes, for she has dreamed pleasant dreams, and the gold of her necklace catches the morning sunlight. The sea delicately crashes against the shore below the Cair, in its music almost a purr. And as King Edmund the Just sits up, stretching and popping his muscles and joints, he grins, warmed to the core in spite of himself, for Edmund is _always_ a light sleeper.

And Queen Susan the Gentle runs the corridors of the castle, frightening sundry sentries with her haste, alert even at this ungodly hour. She runs, feet tripping lightly along the stone passageways, hair streaming free behind her and eyes alight with anticipation, for her elder brother is home at last, and she must make certain that he is safe and unharmed. (And have a word or two with him about timely correspondence--_haven't you heard of writing letters; they're how people communicate when they're apart_--but that's not nearly as poetic.)

_But that's just Susan for you._


End file.
